


Sing to Me

by Tink_Wondering



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Mention of Past Abuse, Mistaken Identity (Kind of), Pre-Slash, Singing Competition, X-Factor, and it's only three paragraphs, inferred child abuse, nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28975770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tink_Wondering/pseuds/Tink_Wondering
Summary: Somehow, Clint has been manipulated into auditioning for the X-Factor by Nat.This should end badly, until it doesn't.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 16
Kudos: 33





	Sing to Me

**Author's Note:**

> For the mention of past abuse, if you want to skip it, stop at "As he strummed the first note", then skip the next two paragraphs. It's quite mild, I believe, but take care of yourselves and what could trigger you. If you need precisions, don't hesitate to ask me.  
>   
> This stemmed from me watching some singing competition show and getting this idea. Then not stopping until it is written (although I have a thousand others WIP).  
>   
> Thanks to the Clint/Coulson discord for songs suggestions.  
>   
> Also, it is 2 A.M. right now, so sorry for any errors left.

Clint was breathing hard, trying and failing to calm his nerves before going on stage and singing in front of a live audience. He paced around in a circle; if the ground would not open and swallow him up, he had to create his own void to fall into. 

‘ _I shouldn’t be here, this is a mistake, I wasn’t supposed to be chosen,_ ’ Clint repeated to himself again and again like a depressing mantra, pushing him into more of a frenzy. Lucky for him, he was so used to carrying a guitar that he’d forgotten it was there, or surely, he would’ve destroyed by now while fiddling with it. 

To make matters worse, he could feel the cameras zooming in on his face to capture this moment of pure, unadulterated fear. He hoped some people were going to enjoy this moment of torture, at least it would make good TV. 

Why hadn’t he insisted on simply accompanying Nat? He could’ve been sitting comfortably in the public by now, happy with his anonymity and unrecognized talent. He was cursing Nat to Sunday in his head when someone patted him on the shoulder.

“What,” he barked. If someone wanted to talk to him right now, they’d have to face him as he was, stressed and not ready to deal with people’s inane encouragement.

“Clint, breathe.” Natasha glared at him, a distinct contrast with her calm voice. Loki was performing right now, his screeching metal interpretation of _Dancing Queen_ was coming to an end—something about combining both his passion for metal and his Scandinavian heritage—and the screaming engulfed most of their conversation.

“Naaat!” His sharp tone had turned whiny, and he knew it would irritate her more than if he tried to bitch her about his situation.

“Don’t start, Clint. This is your chance. Take it.” She took a step forward, and for a second Clint thought she would punch him and put him out of his misery, but she only straightened his collar—why did he have to wear a dress shirt of all things? “I did not go to the auditions for myself, and I think you know it, deep down.”

Clint let out a long-suffering sigh because, of course, she played him and emotionally manipulated him to accompany her to the audition _and then_ nudged him to get his own audition without his knowledge. He still wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t Nat’s secret dream to pierce into the music industry though. And anyway, even if he had come this far, he didn’t have any chance.

“I don’t need your help.” He batted her hands away, and they both knew it wasn’t about his collar.

“I think you do,” she insisted, she quickly arranged his shirt to her liking before stepping back. “I also think you should forget what your no-good-of-a-brother ever told you and just listen to me. I’m always—”

“—right, yeah, I know.” Clint talked over her, and he’s sure he would regret it, but at any moment they’d ask him to go up on stage; if Nat wanted to impart some great knowledge that would help him, it was now or never.

“You are good, Clint,” she said, emphasizing each word. 

Clint doubted her. He’d gone into the first round of auditions in front of the producers without having prepared anything, thinking it didn’t matter since he wouldn’t be chosen. He had mumbled something about encouraging a friend when asked about his motivation to compete and sang a few bars of _Hit Me With Your Best Shot_ when needed—because, despite it all, Clint still loved a bad joke, and an archer singing that was the ultimate bad joke in his book. 

His advancement into the second round of auditions was just a fluke or a ploy for the producers to gain more viewers if a feud happened between him and Nat if he wasn’t chosen. Sucked to be them, because he wouldn’t put his friendship in peril for something so childish. 

“You’ve been chosen for a reason, and you deserve your place here. Also, if you make the right effort, I think you’ll enjoy it. This year is not like any others.” If that was her grand ‘They may take our lives, but they'll never take our freedom’ Braveheart-style speech, it needed work. “Whatever, you’re not listening to me right now. Just go, it’s your turn.” Although her tone was sharp and biting, she squeezed his hand before letting him go, and Clint knew she was simply trying to distract him.

Clint reminded himself that he didn’t really want to do this, so he just had to mumble his way through this audition, then he’d be sent home and free from all this.

New resolve in place, Clint moved to the bottom of the steps leading to the stage, waiting for his cue to go up. The assistant, an older man with a mop of dark brown hair and a calm aura surrounding him, told him to wait another two minutes. Clint was steeling his nerves one last time when Loki appeared at the top of the stairs.

He wore a self-confident smirk as he swaggered down the steps. Clint had hated him on sight when their paths first crossed. Rumour was he had ditched his brother last minute before the audition and refused to acknowledge the man in public. Among the contestants, people were trying to find out who it was. If he was a brother to Loki—and Clint knew a lot about shitty brothers—he would try to avoid him just as much as Loki seemed to be avoiding him.

“Good luck, blondie,” he whispered as he passed by—fucking whispered like a middle school kid, Clint thought uncharitably.

“Don’t need your luck, fall out boy.” And okay, sue him, Clint wasn’t any more mature, but better fight fire with fire or, in this case, playground insults with playground insults.

“Y’all ready for our next contestant?” Wade Wilson, the host of this year’s X-Factor, was energizing the crowd. It was late afternoon, and they’d spent the day auditioning hopeful contestants—some better than others. “If he’s not any good, we’ll be sure to pass down tomatoes for you to throw—”

“Wilson!” Someone yelled over the PA system; this bit would surely be cut during the edit. 

Clint thought it was quite tamed from the infamous Wade Wilson; wildly popular in his late teens with his group _Swimming Infertility_ —they did covers by taking songs and turn them to their extreme to highlight how wrong some of the lyrics were. Sadly, he suffered from a psychosis in his mid-twenties. A decade later, he came back, being an advocate for mental health, but he also used every excuse to be inappropriate. So, the producers really only had themselves to blame for choosing him.

“God? Is that you? I have a lot of questions for you, but first… Why would you deprive us of the privilege to make our voices heard through fresh produce? At least something palatable would be on stage.”

“Wilson!”

“Well, my dears, God has spoken. We’ll see if we listen to him, look under your seats later just in case,” he whispered loudly into the mike. “And now, without any further ado, let’s welcome our next contestant!”

The assistant signalled Clint to go on up to the stage. Somehow, Wilson’s stint had calmed Clint’s nerves, and he had forgotten about the audition. He walked to the front of the stage without looking up until he’d found his mark, ignoring the loud applause executed more out of politeness than for him specifically. He then reminded himself that he would soon be eliminated and that he had nothing to worry about.

When he looked up, he couldn’t distinguish any of the audience members. People sitting in the auditorium could be cardboard cut-outs for all he knew. They were so far away and in the dark that he couldn’t discern any features on them. Next, he turned his eyes to the judges’ panel, and those he could see—not clearly since there quite far and in too much light, but enough compared to the audience.

And he hadn’t realized until now who would supervise these auditions. He recognized the two men in the middle, and they were big names.

Center-left was Tony Stark, more famously known as Iron Man. Child to Howard Stark, owner of Stark Industries, he had passed the chance at a life of science and technological feats to pursue a career as a singer instead—hard rock, of all things. 

Next to him was Steve Rogers, a member of the Howling Commandos. His group adapted modern tunes to turn them into a swing or jazz versions. Somehow, Clint thought his voice would be more suited for a more metal style, but he was no professional, so who was he to know what was best for the guy. 

In any case, Stark and Rogers couldn’t be more different from one another. Considering the pinched look on both men’s faces, Clint thought it had not been an easy day for either of them. He shrugged internally; the worst conditions they were in, the easier it would be for them to dismiss him.

As for the last two judges seated on the outside of the quartet, Clint didn’t recognize them; must be producers or something. On the far right, seated on the other side of Rogers was a woman, dark hair and a sharp look that could find all his secrets on the spot. Clint squirmed under her gaze and turned his attention on the man on the far left. He didn’t sport a weary look like Rogers from sitting next to Stark; he was even smiling genially at him. Clint wasn’t fooled though; he could see Stark giving the man surreptitious looks while massaging his right arm. 

The smile must be a cover of some sort to lull him into a false sense of security.

Well, two could play at that game.

“Hello there,” the man greeted politely. “Have you prepared anything for us today?”

“Nope.” Clint popped the -p. Some gasps could be heard from the crowd.

“Oh, a smart-ass. I already like him,” Tony piped up.

“Language,” Steve said automatically as though it wasn’t the first time he said that today.

“I didn’t curse, boy scout, so take your 1920 etiquette and shove it up—”

“If you don’t have anything,” the man stated loudly over what started to sound like an inappropriate Stark comment, “then do you want to tell us about yourself. Who are you?”

The man smiled winningly once again at Clint. Clint grinned back. The man laid back in his chair, probably expecting Clint to start a long-winded speech on his dream to become a singer.

“And who are you?” Clint parroted back the question. The people in the audience oohed as if on cue, which they probably did, considering this would be televised.

“He has claws,” Wilson commented from the sidelines. “Rawr! I think we should let him through just for that.”

“If you must know, I am a music producer,” the man said nonchalantly, still leaning back in his chair.

“What have you done? _Tales of Suspense_ album by Winter Soldier? _The Secret Empire_ by Captain America? Or _End of the Line_ by Falcon?” 

Clint knew he wasn’t fair; all the titles had been produced under SHIELD records, by one Philip J. Coulson. Very few pictures of him existed to the public—not that Clint searched, because he wasn’t that kind of fan, really, he wasn’t—and the illustrious producer was known to be a recluse in the music industry. 

Still, when something came out with his name attached, it was sure to be a success. All the talk around him questioning the secrecy may also be due to the fact that his three top stars, Winter Soldier, Captain America and Falcon, chose to remain anonymous too. Easily enough, the myth had then been created around them.

“As a matter of fact, I did produce those albums.”

“Wha—” Clint could feel himself turning red.

“Phil Coulson.” The man had straightened up at his question, and now he inclined his head as if to greet him properly. “But I’d say you’ve heard of me.” 

The crowd tittered behind him, and Clint cursed Nat to eternity, trying to get his flaming face to regain a more natural colour. How could she not tell him that Phil fucking Coulson was a judge on X-Factor this year? _Why_ was a judge on X-Factor?

“How?”

“A contract, as these things usually work, but how about we get back to you mister…?”

“Barton, Clint Barton.”

“Hide your martinis, folks,” Wilson once again commented from the sidelines. “Double-o seven is coming for you.” Clint glared in the host’s direction.

“Thank you, Wilson.” Coulson’s bland smile was back on. “Now, how about we try to finish this in a timely manner. Why are you here, Mr. Barton?”

“For a friend?”

“And why isn’t that friend here with you on the stage?” The woman finally spoke up. She hadn’t let up on observing him during his blunder, but Clint thought he could discern a smirk; it had appeared after his first retort to Phil Coulson—and Clint still couldn’t believe he was auditioning in front of Phil Coulson, maybe repeating his name in his head would make the situation feel more real. And Clint still didn’t know who she was, but he had made himself of a fool enough for a day.

“She’s supposed to come up next. Natasha Romanoff. Once you hear her, you’ll want to accept her into the competition. I’d only be a burden to her audition if we did it together. And she’s the best there is, and her range—” Clint was just starting to extol Nat’s qualities when he was interrupted.

“I’m sure she is but let us concentrate on you first.” Coulson was now leaning forward on his elbows, his hands clasped in front of him. Clint couldn’t see it clearly, but now that he was paying attention, he noticed that the sleeves of his shirt were rolled down showcasing his forearms. Picture perfect of the competent salaryman at work. To complete the tableau, Clint remarked when he put down his arms that his tie was loose and some of his shirt buttons undone.

And Clint swallowed, hard, at the picture of debauchery. Not only was he Phil Coulson, but Clint felt that the man rarely let himself be seen so… unconstrained and relaxed. He had to remind himself that this was recorded for television, and it would be unseemly to adjust himself on national TV.

“Yeah, I mean yes. I’m here to support Nat who told me that she couldn’t go through this process alone. So here I am.”

“Here you are,” Coulson mirrored his words, looking directly at Clint.

“You told us you didn’t prepare anything, but surely you have a song in mind.” Rogers broke their exchange. 

‘ _Get a hold of yourself, Barton. Kids watch this,_ ’ he reminded himself.

“Yeah, _This year_ by Mountain Goats.”

“Huh, bold choice,” Stark remarked. “Not the best known or most upbeat song out there.”

“No, but it’s not popularity that makes a song, is it?” While he was talking, Clint shifted his guitar to his front to adjust the cords. “It’s more the meaning of it that matters.”

After that, the auditorium went silent. Not even the judges broke it to tell him to start when he was ready. For all that Clint had been stressed before landing a foot on the stage or embarrassed after his blunder with Coulson, music was always an escape. It brought him peace that nothing else could.

As he strummed the first notes, Clint wondered if it was the right song. He had planned to either go with _Hit Me With Your Best Shot_ or _Long Shot_ —it was unreal how many archery puns he could make through songs.Either way, _This Year_ was not one he had thought of performing tonight. He reserved it for dark days when he needed the hope that something better could come his way. But going through the audition process of X-Factor and meeting Phil Coulson had sparked some kind of hope it seemed. 

So, he let his thoughts go free, closing his eyes to center himself in the feeling of peace, losing himself in the song. He escaped through it; leaving the beatings by his father and snarled comments by his brother behind to travel through the open roads. He imagined a boy, that may or may not resemble Coulson, beside him—he always imagined someone different each time he sang it. They played around together; drinking, laughing, travelling. 

But then, it wasn’t enough. He couldn’t truly forget where he came from, so he drank more and more. And the boy was back, helping him forget. Of course, a drunken haze could only last so long, and soon enough, he found himself back at home with his father just as drunk and his brother just as mean. Until everything changed for the worst, in the form of a car crash. Although a part of him had died that night, he had promised himself he would fight on and live his life as he wanted to. 

Even if he could never completely forget where he came from.

And this song encompassed this feeling so well; it had resonated with him from the first time he had heard it.

And then, as he let the last notes hung in the air, he came back to himself, on the stage. The auditorium was just as silent as it was before he started. When Clint opened his eyes, the judges were looking at him in awe or something. Stark was discretely wiping his eye while Rogers was openly doing it. The woman was just as aloof as before, but her edges seemed to have softened somehow.

As for Coulson, he was once again leaning forward on his elbows, as if to try to get closer to the stage. When Clint met his gaze, Coulson slid his eyes away, bashful. And Clint frowned; what could he have to be shy about considering Clint was the one who sang in front of thousands. Before he could ask what that was about, Coulson cleared his throat, breaking the silence.

“Thank you, mister Barton. This was a profound interpretation. I am honoured to have witnessed it.” And it was Clint’s turn to be self-conscious. He knew he had a decent voice, but that was more than about the accuracy of his pitch.

“Hell yes, that was good!” Stark added. Clint mouthed his thanks at Coulson since there was little else he could do. The other judges had joined into the commenting part of the audition, leaving barely enough place for Clint to thank each of them for their praise.

He was still kind of dumbstruck when Wilson appeared at his side.

“Nice little tweaks there in the lyrics, champ.”

Clint frowned. What tweak? It was his pick-me-up song for years; he was sure he hadn’t fumbled the lyrics. The only part he changed sometimes was— 

‘ _Aw, mouth, no,_ ’ he thought.

And for a second, Clint was like a deer in the headlights. He didn’t think his habit of changing the gender and/or name in the song would happen in front of a live audience as well as the man he changed the name for. And of course, while the judges had been tactful enough not to comment on it—though Clint couldn’t be sure because he hadn’t really been listening—Wilson had to highlight it for all to hear.

Clint tried to downplay it; although with the way he was sweating, it must be obvious for all to see, how uncomfortable he felt in this moment.

“I changed ‘a girl named Cathy’ for ‘a boy named Phil’, didn’t I?” he asked, plastering his most ruggedly charming smile on.

“To quote you without quoting you,” Wilson started just to drag out the suspense, “yup!” He finished with a large sweep of his arms, popping the -p as Clint did when he first set foot on stage.

“Well, who would blame me?” he smiled lasciviously at a camera. “He’s one handsome fellow who produces perfect music albums.” He winked in Phil’s direction. Since he’s outing himself on television in front of a live audience, better go all in or nothing, and it was too late for nothing.

“On that note, do any of our judges want to say no to this enterprising young man?”

“Of course not.”

“Hell no!”

Rogers and Stark exclaimed together while Coulson and the woman simply shook their heads no.

“Well, this is gonna be a wild ride, ladies and gentlemen,” Wilson announced. “Let’s applaud Clint Barton who’ll join us for the next phase: Bootcamp.”

And yeah, Clint thought, finally meeting Coulson’s eyes, this was indeed going to be a wild ride.

**Author's Note:**

>  _Swimming Infertility_ is graciously presented to you by google translate. Who knew Deadpool translated 10 times would come back as that? Also, the album titles are comic issues from each respective character.


End file.
